


to the planets who wait

by tal_5



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Anxiety Disorder, Depression, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Multi, Neglectful Parents, References to Depression, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Sexism, Trans Male Anxiety | Virgil Sanders, Trans Male Character, Transphobia, controlling parents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2020-06-03 15:43:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19467079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tal_5/pseuds/tal_5
Summary: Virgil hasn’t completely figured himself or his family out yet. And there are so many things he will refuse to come to terms with, but can his best friend of ten years, Roman Diaz encourage him to live and not just exist?





	1. Chapter 1

Something about the corridors leading to the main cafeteria seem to dull the sunlight forcing its way through the windows panelled along Ava’s left side, plastering itself to the white paint in patterns reflecting the shape of the windows. Dark striped shadows interrupt the constant light opening up the space for students — something designed as an attempt to comfort them. _Not working._

Especially not with the eyes lingering on her for a little longer than necessary. Not with the reminder of upcoming exams that will decide her entire future sitting on her shoulders. No, not sitting. It feels more like someone has wrapped their arms around her neck, clinging on for dear life as she attempts to go about her daily activities (not that she has many), dragging their feet along the ground behind them and ensuring that they inflict as many breathing complications on her as they can. She wants to swat at them, maybe pinch or claw at their hands until they let go, but whenever she lifts her arm to do so, she remembers that this is just a metaphor and that there’s nobody actually there.

Placing down a textbook marked and annotated to her creative writing lecturer’s unrealistic standards, Ava decides that food isn’t a good idea yet and takes out a book from her bag. It’s a book she’s read over and over, constantly absorbing each and every word, and holding each chapter close to her heart tighter every time she reads and re-reads it. She keeps a worn copy in her bag at all times, having her clean and almost untouched copy on her shelf at home. Running the soft tips of her fingers over the wrinkled top corners of each page and feeling the soft paper slide across her skin like the tiny wings of a hundred moths, she skims through the book, something that could be an insult to the very meaning of art if she hadn’t already read and worshipped the book more times that is probably healthy. For the next twenty minutes or so, she plans on getting completely lost in the world of another author’s mind and cherishing each character she meets again and again, silently treating them like old friends or old nemesis’ already beaten down and defeated.

All hope of this is lost however, when a familiar voice murmurs in her ear. “Whatcha doin?”

“Jesus Christ,” she tries not to exclaim too loudly in the crowded cafeteria, but almost being jumped by your best friend tends to cause unprecedented heart-failure. “Stop doing that, moron. Do you _want_ me to die young?”

Rolling his eyes, Roman grins and slips into his usual seat beside her, eyes skimming over page one-hundred and one of what he knows is her favourite novel. “Not before you finish that book for the thousandth time. I know how much you love it.”

Expression a blank canvas, Ava hums quietly in response. “Gee, thanks.”

Taking out a plastic box filled with chicken sandwiches, a bag of hot Cheetos, a yogurt, a banana, an apple, and two cake bars, Roman unwraps one of his sandwiches and flips the cover of the book over, keeping his thumb on the page Ava had been up to to keep her place. “You never have told me why you love this book so much.”

Suddenly, Ava finds one of the circle awards printed onto the cover very interesting, tracing the shapes within the badge with her index finger and half-heartedly reading the names of each reward in her mind. The laminated page shimmers in the direction of the infuriatingly bright cafeteria lights and despite how truly used it looks, Ava has never felt so much love and fondness towards another inanimate object before. She shrugs. “I can just relate to it a lot, alright?”

“Why, has the main protagonist refused to eat lunch for the past three days too?” Roman taunts, a hint of fondness licking at the edges of his words.

Ava smiles back at him and takes one of his offered chicken sandwiches, admittedly hungrier than she had let on. As she unwraps the tin foil and crumples it up into a rough, spiky ball, she opens the book to its last two pages and smiles as the last conversation between the two protagonists comes to an end. She reads over the last line over and over again, feeling warmth well up in her chest and a light flush heat up her cheeks. Not out of embarrassment, nor anger, nor shame.She doesn’t completely know why, actually. But all she knows is that she’s happy.

From beside her, Roman scans her face, looking for something that can tell him what she’s thinking. Because, despite having been Ava’s best friend for ten years, he is completely clueless when it comes to predicting her. There is rarely a time where he can anticipate her reaction to something. Sure, there’s the variable of anxiety that can somewhat help him to predict her reactions to certain situations, but there are times where she can even surprise him with _that_.

Despite this, he has come to understand that Ava is prone to skipping meals.

And as Roman watches his best friend practically inhale one of the chicken sandwiches his mami had prepared for him this morning, he remembers her words as she stacked twice as much food as she’d usually give him: “Miho, tell Ava that if she ever needs anything, we’ve got her back, okay?”

He decides he’ll let Ava choose whether she wants the apple or not.

“How long have you had that book for anyway?”

Ava shrugs and remains in her apparent staring contest with the open book beneath her left hand. Tapping her index finger against the crinkled top left corner of the page, she reads over the very last line once again and ignores the pleased twitch of her lips. “Like, five years or something. I bought it at a Barnes and Noble near my house.”

She doesn’t mention that her financial situation at the time was less than ideal and that she had bought the book with half of her lunch money that she’d saved for over a week. Her parents didn’t know that either and despite his best intentions and efforts, Roman can never quite keep his mouth shut when it comes down to secrets or gossip. Instead, she asks him why he’s so interested in the book and whether he wants to borrow it or not, she doubts it, but it’s better to ask instead of dwelling on a memory that no longer matters. She kind of hopes he doesn’t want to read it.

With his usual grin, he shakes his head. “Nah, I’m a reader, but I wouldn’t want to borrow a book so important to you. If I got even a _tiny_ crease in your newer copy, you’d kill me and bury my body.”

“Burying a body makes it easier to get caught, I’d burn it or something.”

Roman snorts in response to what he hopes is a joke of his demise (and murder no less) from his best friend. “You’re definitely only strengthening my argument to _not_ borrow your book, Tinkersmell.”

“I’m definitely not complaining,” says Ava, hiding the bottom half of her face with her free hand and bowing her head slightly, “I don’t lend my books to _anyone_ except you. You know how special they are to me. Especially this one.”

After tilting the bag of Cheetos he’s holding in her direction, he watches her take a handful and throw them in her mouth. “I have to say that I am really curious as to why you love that book so much. I’ve read the blurb and it seems like a typical contemporary to me, though, I won’t lie and say that contemporary’s can’t be works of art. It’d be blasphemous to even insinuate such a thing!"

Ava’s body jolts with a loose movement of dismissal. “I’ve already told you, I can just relate to it a lot.”

He decides just to drop it and talk about how interesting his actor training lecture had been, and to surprise Ava with his three pages of notes, usually only writing a page at most. They delve deeper into some of the topics talked about during the lesson and have their usual petty quarrel about something they more or less agree on, but with one little tweak to one’s opinion. For example, Ava believes in sticking to the script and only improvising when necessary or asked to, whilst Roman believes that sticking to the script is important for an actor/actress so they don’t get off track, but that improvising is almost vital to truly understanding a role. “So many famous lines have been improvised and have been talked about for years afterwards, meaning that that movie has also been discussed for years after its release!”

“Yeah, but there have definitely been awful lines improvised and cut out of the final product. And I know that if I were an actor, I’d feel like an idiot if the line I improvised was terrible.” Ava pauses to allow her friend to process her argument before continuing, “I think it’s just better to follow the script and discuss any improvisations, edits, or additions to it with the script-writers and everything first.”

Roman narrows his eyes, huffing out an incredulous half-laugh. “If they discussed it with the higher-ups, then they wouldn’t really be improvised. They would be additions.”

“I said additions.”

“Yes, but we’re talking about improvising lines here! You’re acting like we’re discussing novels. Acting like some sort of _roman_ poet, here.”

Ava raises an eyebrow. “You’re being dramatic. Also, the pun wasn’t funny and didn’t even make much sense.”

The pair eventually just agree to disagree and move on. Pulling out her notebook, Ava scrawls something down quickly before shoving it back into her bag. Roman’s smile dances with confusion for a moment before he laughs lightly and gestures down at her bag with his head. “What was that?”

Ava shrugs, a thing she’d seemed to be doing a lot lately. “Just writing down an idea for a character. He’s stupid and has stupid hair.”

Immediately, the performing arts student presses a hand to his chest in feigned hurt and suppresses his growing smile with a saddened pout. “Wow, and here I thought we were friends. Guess I was wrong.”

“Just because your stupid doesn’t mean we’re not friends. I’m stupid too, so we make a good pair.”

Though they both know that there’s a hint of truth in her joke, they laugh anyway because what else can they do?

Soon enough, they’ve finished Roman’s lunch and are sitting in a field in front of the college building. But this time, they decide to quietly read together until someone has a topic of conversation they’d like to discuss. Ava, of course, picks up her usual book and starts from her spot at page one hundred and one, getting lost within the struggles between the protagonists. She can’t help glancing up at her best friend every once in a while however, eyes falling from the curved bridge of his nose to the cover of his current read. It’s actually a novel she had recommended to him, ‘Strange the Dreamer’ by Laini Taylor.

Since she knew that Roman had been obsessed with everything fantasy since the day he could process the things happening in the cartoons he watched as a child, Ava had known for a fact that such a lyrical and magical fantasy young adult novel would be right up his alley. Maybe she’s looking up at him so much because she’s searching for a reaction in his expression to whatever plot point he’s up to in the story, or maybe she’s just unintentionally admiring the way his umber brown hair sways gently with the movement of the sunlight.

She mostly concentrates on her own book though, feeling her heart beat harder as the protagonist is constantly asked about the one thing he really doesn’t want to think of, which is something she can relate to heavily. Her parents don’t seem completely interested in anything other than whether she has a boyfriend, or whether she’s buying her clothes from the right area of H&M. But the more she’s asked about these things, not only by her parents — even Roman has asked her about any romantic interests a few times, the more uncomfortable she feels about the concept of being in a committed relationship. And the more she’s begun to feel more insecure in whatever item of clothing she decides to wear day by day, constantly pulling down the back of her skirt to ensure that there are no lingering eyes where there shouldn’t be, or she’ll pull down the hem of her shirt to cover up the back of her skinny jeans. Baggy shirts had become a godsend for her.

Why aren’t people interested in different stuff, more _important_ stuff if she were to be so bold as to say so? There are people suffering all over the world for so many different reasons, why not concentrate on solving those problems rather than trying to fix something that isn’t broken enough to be a problem yet? She really doesn’t understand the desperation people have for relationship gossip. Like, wow that one guy really likes that other girl. And? If she doesn’t like him back then that’ll suck, but whether she does or doesn’t is her business to tell. People shouldn’t gossip about someone else’s feelings to the point that that person feels pressured to reveal them without wanting to.

And her clothes, who cares what she decides to wear every day? Especially her parents. In fact, her parents seem to be the only ones who care that much about her choice of clothing. They prefer for her to wear skirts and dresses or shorts, but sometimes she enjoys wearing skinny jeans when it’s cold outside. Or sometimes, when she can’t be bothered to make an effort in her appearance, she’ll go to college wearing a pair of joggers and a t-shirt. Her father really doesn’t like the joggers that she wears, most likely because they’re baggy and dark.

But isn’t it a bit weird that her father is bothered by her wearing clothes that she’s just comfortable in? Shouldn’t he be encouraging her to ‘cover up’ like most fathers do? Not that Ava completely agrees with it, but he’s always been happier when she’s in full makeup, a skirt or dress, and flats. Apparently high heels are for ‘sluts’ and she’d fall over in them anyway because she’s too clumsy. And honestly, Ava can’t disagree with him on that last thing. The first point is disgusting and she kind of hates her father for thinking such a thing, but she’s happy to admit that her legs just don’t understand their own function sometimes. Not that it’s only limited to her legs. Oh no, she’s clumsy with every part of her body that she can be clumsy with.

Her hobbies seem to be an interest of her father’s too. Not because he actually cares about what she enjoys and is taking notes on what gifts he can buy for her that will directly coincide with them, but because he doesn’t want her doing certain things. Sports, for one thing. He says that sports are for ‘men’ and that he wouldn’t want Ava to be hurt during a match or something.

Not that Ava’s ever been interested in sports as a hobby, but recently she’s been thinking about joining a spinning class at the gym, or maybe even a sporting society at college. Just something to keep her in shape, though she does have dancing for that, but she’d like to broaden her opinions on sport in general. Because not only has she been conditioned to believe that only men can play sports and that all women who dare to play sports are ‘lesbians’ or ‘butch’, but she herself just thinks that sports are boring. But she doesn’t want to think like that anymore, it’s unfair. So many people love sports like soccer and basketball, and she wants to understand why. She’s also heard that a lot of exercise can help boost serotonin and whatever other juices help keep you happy, and since ‘depression isn’t real’ and ‘anxiety is just you being paranoid’, her parents haven’t sent her to a therapist, or allowed her to take the medication recommended by her doctor.

She’s eighteen now, so technically she could make more of these decisions herself, but she doesn’t want to. Well, she _does_ , but also she doesn’t. It’s very complicated.

To be frank, she doesn’t really understand why she can’t just make the phone call to her doctor that would probably change her life for the better based on what he had described to her, but every time she even thinks about dialling the number she starts to feel sick and decides to move onto something else. Could it be procrastination? She supposes that it probably is procrastination, partially because she doesn’t actually want to delve into why she could actually be afraid to do these things herself. Is there a way she’ll ever be someone completely her own?

“Thanks for recommending this book to me.”

Roman’s low voice interrupts her internal emotional crisis and guides her eyes back into focus, a mist separating into two half and gliding away as if afraid of meeting her gaze, reading the words of the protagonist in her story again. It takes her a moment to fully process his words, but when she does, she bites her cheek to prevent a smile from crossing her face and nods. “It’s cool. I thought you’d like it.”

He grins and his eyes are suddenly set aflame as he talks animatedly about the section he’s on, and how he really doesn’t know whether he should feel sorry for Thyon Nero or not. Ava snickers and shakes her head. “I don’t, not really. Yeah, I feel bad for him because his parents treat him like garbage, of course I do, but he’s still a pretentious snob. He’s still treating Lazlo like dirt despite the fact that he’s tried to be nothing but helpful and nice to him. I haven’t read the sequel yet, but I either hope he eats wet mud or redeems himself.”

As soon as Ava mentions a sequel, Roman’s head sharply turns down in her direction. “A sequel? There’s a sequel?!”

“Yeah, I can’t tell you the name though, it would kind of ruin the first book.”

“What?! How?!”

Ava simply winks. Roman groans loudly in frustration and throws himself across her lap, holding the open book above him, hiding his best friend’s face from view. “You’re mean and I’m not talking to you anymore.”

There’s a pleasant prickle of something akin to anxiety in her chest before Ava decides to just continue on with her book, letting Roman rest his own book on her arms that sit on his chest. She watches his tongue poke out of his mouth as he concentrates on the words, blinking rapidly every now and then until the sentence finally makes sense in his mind. The book she recommended to him is quite a difficult read writing style-wise, but she had forgotten about his own struggles with reading in general and had only been excited about knowing that he would almost definitely enjoy the book.

They’re quiet for a while until Roman huffs loudly and slams his book shut, sticking the bookmark in place before doing so. He closes his eyes and swallows, ignoring the concerned stare Ava is so obviously giving him. “What part are you up to?”

“Page seventy-six, where Lazlo is trying to convince the Godslayer to take him to Weep.”

Ava waits a moment, taking a deep breath before picking the book up from where he’d slammed it into his chest. Nerves tingle up her throat, stopping her breath for a moment before they finally let her read the words typed across the page. “ _Their vivid faces showed their surprise — not because Lazlo had called out, but because he had called out in Unseen, and unlike Thyon, he didn’t treat it like a common thing, but the rare and precious gem it was._ ”

Her voice shakes slightly; reading out loud is much more embarrassing than she had thought it would be, for some reason creating a more vulnerable air around her as Roman keeps quiet. After a second or so, he looks up at her and smiles gratefully. They don’t say anything more, only listening to Ava’s voice as she reads through the next four pages, her shaking voice calming to a much more serene balance. She smiles at her friend’s relaxed expression, knowing that despite his closed eyes, he is listening so intently that it should probably make her anxious, but it doesn’t.

Later, as Ava arrives home from college, she dodges her father’s questions about how it went and whether she’d ‘met anyone nice’, and throws herself on her bed, opening her notebook again. Instead of stopping at the page where she usually writes down a few thoughts and feelings of the day, she escapes to the back page where a list of names are scribbled down in a list.

_Connor_

_Alex_

_Alexander (kinda the same but w/e)_

_Ryan_

_Shane_

_Daniel_

~~_Roman_ ~~ _(ew no)_

_Virgil_

She reads through them again and gnaws at her bottom lip, feeling panic crawl up from her stomach to her throat, soon closing up her windpipe and bringing a certain dampness to her eyes. What was even the point in writing all of these down when she knowa for a fact nobody is going to use them? Maybe Roman would, but what if he doesn’t? He could leave and Ava (?) isn’t quite sure she’s ready to lose him yet.

But, just for the sake of her wishful thinking, what name does she like best?

And despite every intention on going with Daniel, her eyes can’t help falling back down to ‘Virgil’. Such a weird name, she thinks. Weird in a good way, but still weird. She’s weird too, whether it’s in a good way is up to whoever she happens to meet or already know, but she’s definitely weird. So, honestly, the name is kind of perfect.

Virgil. How would it feel to be referred to by that name for the rest of her life?

Or, his life, she supposes. _He_ supposes? Whatever.

But she has to be sure before making any final decisions. There’s no turning back after this, if she doesn’t stick to one label then nobody will ever take her seriously. Her parents’ll call it a ‘phase’ and although she doesn’t really see anything wrong with that, everyone else will and she can’t deal with that right now. Her parents won’t like it. She knows that already. So, there will be no coming out to her parents until she’s financially independent, which means living by herself and being stable enough to lose their support if they decide to cut her out of their lives. Him. Cut _him_ out of their lives. As of right now, she is no longer a she. She is no longer _Ava Sanders_.

Looking into the mirror of his phone, Virgil Sanders meets himself for the first time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Virgil truly realises what a difficult position he's in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's unintentional misgendering and the use of a dead name in this chapter
> 
> also, be careful for swearing, homophobia, mentioned transphobia, and the dismissal of mental illness!

Getting up late in the morning has its advantages, acquiring more sleep being one of the best. But staying in bed also offers other benefits such as comfortable solitude, a delay in duties to function like a regular human (according to society’s definition of normal, anyway), and snuggling in the soft protection of the covers.

However, staying in bed also gives people such as Virgil less time to eat breakfast or prepare lunch, which is how at 8:24AM, an English bachelor student dressed in baggy sweatpants and a graphic tee trips over his own untied sneaker in his kitchen whilst on the hunt for lunch, one his mother had promised to make him the night before. He had been exhausted after a day of discovering himself and hating certain lecturers and had made an offhand comment about it, resulting in a kiss on the forehead and a promise from his mother to make him some lunch. She said it likely wouldn’t be much, just a sandwich and whatever else she could find in their kitchen, but he was more than happy with even a simple ham sandwich.

And you know what? Despite every past experience and ounce of common sense telling him not to get his hopes up, he had, because his mother truly does mean well. Anyway. He heads off to the bus stop without breakfast or said lunch, hoping the weight in his stomach would ease up if he tells himself enough that he should’ve known.

Luckily, he manages to miss his father this morning, dodging his study and rushing out the door before he’d realise his son had even left the house.

_Daughter_. He doesn’t know yet. Does that make Virgil his son any less?

He decides not to conjure up an answer to that question quite yet, instead boarding the bus and allowing his eyes to wander a bit, flickering over each hollow stranger before focusing on the young man sitting and tapping away at his phone in front of him. Must only be around fifteen and yet, he still reminds Virgil of himself. Dark clothing, a red beanie (though, personally, Virgil would have gone for grey, purple, or black) and terribly dyed hair — he definitely did it himself. But Virgil certainly isn’t judging, merely reminiscing on his style when he was in high school and how Roman had constantly teased him for it (in the nicest way possible), and then the thought of his best friend throws his heart into his stomach. How is he going to tell him?

How much is it going to hurt being misgendered by his best friend, the one person in the entire world he feels like he can trust? If only he could shove these thoughts into the back of his mind, but anxiety is truly like a broken record, replaying the same scenes and questions over and over again in his mind. Scenes of rejection and disgust and perhaps even betrayal. Questions of confusion and again, disgust, along with a few questions of his own. Why does it matter what his father or mother think? Or what Roman thinks?

Maybe it matters because, well, what else does he have after them?

Like the situation with his parents, Virgil believes that telling Roman once he’s financially independent and out of his parents’ house will be the best and safest time to do so. What if he told Virgil’s parents before he could stop him? Unlikely, since the three of them barely know each other and Roman despises them, but still possible.

He’s just going to wait it out.

* * *

As his second lecturer of the day rambles on about a personal anecdote that is perhaps _partially_ relevant to the subject of his class, Virgil scribbles an idea for a story plot in the back of his notebook, not attempting to make his handwriting very neat; he has a special notebook for novel ideas and research, so he’ll be tearing out this back page of his university notebook as soon as he gets home and rewriting the idea in his pretty leather writing notebook.

Honestly, it’s probably strange to daydream about the texture of a piece of stationary, but Virgil’s novel-planning notebook owns his entire heart and, no matter how many pretty stylistic notebooks he finds whilst browsing several libraries and stationary stores, he will never discover one as aesthetically pleasing as the notebook he bought three years ago with the last of his monthly allowance. He traces the pad of his slender index finger across the clean wooden desk in front of him, remembering the rough texture of his faux leather notebook. Explosions of violet and cobalt through a scaled ocean of black remind him of several abandoned ideas; stories of a bold knight rescuing a seemingly beastly dragon from a secretly manipulative princess, the God of Death’s perspective on several tragedies that had shaken the Earth without the need for clashing tectonic plates, a girl with a popular male name meeting a boy with a popular female name (that’s as far as he’d gotten with that idea), and even a story based around the theory of life being a simulation. But he’d never really rolled with those ideas for long. The struggle of an aspiring writer is an overactive imagination.

Which, to be honest, could explain more than just the toppling of novel ideas.

One idea, however, continues to pester him and claw at his insides, as if it had dissolved into his bones. This is very unusual.

Even when he has been passionate about a story idea, he’s always gotten sick of thinking about it and left it out to dry for a while. If you think about something for too long, it can really get to you. This should be obvious, but Virgil had thought that was only relevant to negative or intrusive thoughts. Not something he truly adored.

Speaking of relevance, Virgil pulls himself out of his thoughts and finds that his lecturer is _still_ going on about… Was it about his hamster? Virgil can’t even remember anymore. Why would he want to? He’s always been slightly bitter over the topic of adopting an animal, as his parents have never really taken his interest in adopting a therapy animal seriously. _Why would they want to?_ That would mean admitting their child possibly has a mental illness. And, of course, _they_ aren’t real. It’s all in his head.

He loves his parents (more-or-less), but they are absolute fucking morons.

More his father than his mother, but he doesn’t enjoy thinking about that too much, so he usually just leaves it at that. But maybe he should start thinking about it more? Maybe figuring it out would ease some of the tension between them?

Probably not, but it’s worth a try.

“The criteria of your assignment due in…” his lecturers voice finally drills through images of disappointment and resentment, informing his brain that, yes, he does have an assignment due in three weeks time.

He flips to the front of his book and takes notes.

* * *

Again, they’re sitting by the exact same tree as yesterday and reading the exact same books, but something is perhaps a little bit off about it. Because despite how much they genuinely enjoy reading together, their books have been discarded on the grass beside their crossed legs and are listening in to the enthusiastic conversation about a wedding on Roman’s mother’s side of the family. “I honestly never thought they’d finally tie the knot, they’ve been dancing around the idea for so long.”

Virgil, snickering at his best friend’s excitement, shrugs loosely. “Marriage is one hell of a commitment, dude. Both sides have to be one hundred percent sure before anything happens.”

Roman nods in agreement, still grinning. “True, true. I’m just so happy for them, y’know? My tía had a bad experience once and it took a huge toll on her,” he pauses, possibly reflecting on the ‘bad experience’ and how it had also taken a toll on him to see a member of his family in such pain, “Do you think you’ll ever want to get married?”

Wow, he’d never actually thought of marriage before. Does that mean he doesn’t want to get married one day? Virgil wonders whether any guy would want to date a trans man like him, it’s not like he has many redeeming qualities to cancel out the anxiety and the existentialism. “Uh, I think so, yeah. I’ve never really thought much about it before, but I’m guessing you have because you’re you.”

Laughing loudly at his friend’s assumption, Roman nods perhaps somewhat reluctantly. That pride of his was going to get the best of him one day. “Of course I have! I am and always have been a hopeless romantic.”

“Of course.”

“And there’s _nothing wrong_ with being a hopeless romantic!”

Virgil grins. “Most of the time.”

Instead of replying, Roman feigns the most dramatic death Virgil has ever seen and almost smacks his head against the rough trunk of their favourite tree whilst doing so. As Virgil laughs helplessly at his friend’s ‘near-death experience’, Roman rolls his eyes and holds his chin in his palm, resting his elbow on his thigh. “So, Ava,” his stomach turns, “my dearest friend in the entire world who I swear would thoroughly enjoy watching me die slowly, would you be at all interested in being my plus one for my tía’s wedding?”

With an already unsteady breath catching in his throat, Virgil tugs at the thread holding the fabric of his sweatpants together and smiles shakily at his best friend in the entire world who’s just unintentionally misgendered him. “Wow, Princey, ‘plus one’? I’m really feeling the wedding magic.”

Roman, with yet another eye-roll and a grin that almost splits his face in two, leans forward, taking both of Virgil’s hands in his own. Their eyes lock and for a moment, Virgil completely forgets about how good of an actor his best friend is. “Ava, my darling,” and there’s that nausea again, but Virgil finds it rather difficult to concentrate on such a thing when Roman is moving even closer, “would you do me the absolute honour of being my date to my tía’s wedding?”

Virgil, plastering a grin on his face, nods.

* * *

Arriving home, Virgil smells the familiar aroma of takeout pizza sitting in the kitchen. Too bad he’s feeling too sick to eat anything yet.

He asks his mother to keep some aside for him and heads upstairs, throwing himself onto his bed and burying his face in his pillow. It smells like old food and dust; he should really wash these soon. But not even that not-so-nice smell can deter him from attempting to become part of the duvet.

It would hurt. He knew that much from the beginning; being misgendered and having your dead name used would always hurt, no matter who it was from or whether or not it was on purpose. He’d known right from the moment where he’d decided to identify privately as a man named Virgil Sanders, a transgender man who wouldn’t tell a soul that he wasn’t a woman called Ava Sanders; that everyone would continue as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t just made the biggest discovery of his life. But God, hearing Roman call him by his dead name was like a kick to the gut. No, in fact, it was as if he’d just gone and stabbed him in the stomach with a hot blade, searing his insides until there was nothing left but mush.

What can he do about that though? Telling Roman the truth is out of the question and he can’t just say that he dislikes being called Ava and change his name to something just as feminine, because it would still fucking _hurt_.

There’s nothing he can do, really.

His door opens so suddenly, he nearly jumps out of bed like a startled kitten. But when he glances up to see who it is, he immediately wants to curl up and try again to become part of the duvet. Because standing there with his arms folded and face contorted in concern, is Virgil’s father. He has eyes that are bright and oh-so blue, unlike Virgil and his mothers, who were born with darker irises. Unfortunately, those glowing sapphire eyes are rather unbefitting for someone like his father. “Ava, is everything alright? You don’t seem like yourself.”

If only he knew who ‘himself’ was. “I’m fine, dad. Just had a rough day at college.”

“You want to talk about it?”

The words are supposed to form a question, but Virgil knows that tone of voice. He hasn’t got a choice. A sigh tears from his throat as he pushes himself up into a sitting position in the middle of his bed, settling his hands in his lap in order to keep an eye on them. These kinds of conversations make his hands do weird things like flop and wave and shake rapidly. He supposes it’s just the nerves. “Roman invited me to his aunt’s wedding.”

Instantly, his father’s lips curl and his nose wrinkles, eyebrows furrowing slightly as he imagines something Virgil doesn’t even want to know in his mind. “Isn’t he…”

This goes on for a while.

Virgil sighs. “Gay?”

“Yes.”

“He is, yeah. But I’m guessing there’s no boyfriend or anything in his life right now, he’d tell me if there was.”

His dad hums lightly, as if plotting. And Virgil doesn’t like that one bit. “Yet, he invited you to be his _date_ to a _wedding_? Sounds like maybe he’s gotten past that.”

Oh Christ, this conversation is really happening, isn’t it? Virgil swallows and his hands tighten into fists, attempting to hide the sudden tightness of his mouth. “He’s not going to ‘get past’ being gay, Dad. That’s just who he is, you don’t get any say in it."

And, of course, his dad immediately becomes defensive. “Did I even _imply_ that I get a say in it? I mean, if he were my son, I wouldn’t allow it. But if his parents do, then that’s got nothing to do with me.”

He pauses and barely gives Virgil enough time to hide his sweaty palms in the sleeves of his hoodie before he crosses his arms once again, keeping Virgil at a slight distance, which Virgil does not mind in the slightest. “I was only trying to say that these things usually end up being phases, only temporary! Roman is likely as straight as a ruler and is just exploring other… _options_.”

“Rulers can bend.”

His dad suddenly howls with laughter that sounds far too forced and pats Virgil’s shoulder gently. “Nice one, sweetheart!”

“What?”

“Ruler’s can _bend_. As in a ‘ _bender_ ’. Very funny.”

And suddenly he feels sick. “Can I go out? Just to the park for a bit.”

His father places a hand on his cheek and nods, telling him that he’s eighteen and can do whatever the hell he wants to. Clearly, he doesn’t mean it. But Virgil refuses to dwell on it and rushes out the door.

Fortunately for his aching feet, the park is nearby and there aren’t many people around his estate who’d really find any entertainment within it. He doesn’t either. Not really. Swings are fun for a while, but soon he starts feeling sick and he knows for a fact that if he stays on the swing for too long tonight, the weight in his stomach currently will completely tear through his skin and drag him downwards until he’s just falling. And falling. Until there’s nowhere else to fall.

His dad will never accept him as a man.

That is fact. The homophobia he displayed, no matter how much his father will deny it, is proof of that. What about his mother? She always goes along with what her husband wants, so Virgil’s going to take a stab and say she won’t like it either.

And Roman? Virgil is still debating on whether to tell him. He keeps going back and forth as to whether it would be a good idea or if he should just keep it to himself for the rest of his life. Could he go as Ava just to keep the people he loves in his life?

… No.

He knows that he could never pretend to be someone he isn’t, even if he wants to. Even though he really wishes he could just be happy as Ava Sanders.

The street blurs past him as he runs towards the swings, throwing himself at them and pushing himself up and up and up. As far up as he can go. Maybe he’ll just heave himself so far upwards that the sky will just swallow him and let him forget everything. Allow him to _let go_ of everything.

Perhaps the darkness is seeping so far into his ears that it’s beginning to infect his mind because now he’s wondering whether it would be better to die with his loved ones believing he’s a girl, so they’d at least miss him. Or would they figure out that being transgender isn’t wrong? It wouldn’t really matter if they did, it would be too late. Too late to tell him how much they love him, though his father doesn’t do that much anyway, which doesn’t really bother Virgil, considering his father has always been that way. Not good at expressing his feelings.

Neither is he, but he’d rather not think about that.

He’d rather not think at all, honestly. Because he knows that if he died, whether they knew him as a girl or a man, they would still miss him to an extent. Death is much more serious than his brain is making it out to be, which doesn’t make sense because being dead would kind of eliminate the brain’s function too. And maybe he’s not thinking about Roman’s reaction thoroughly enough.

Roman has always been a kind man, a ridiculously sweet and stupid man. Not stupid intelligence-wise, but stupid as in reckless and oblivious. The two of them have been friends for so long, it would be more surprising if he didn’t accept Virgil for who he is rather than if he did. Maybe Virgil’s just a pessimist. Maybe he’s a realist.

Maybe he should just keep swinging.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if I get anything about being Spanish or transgender wrong in this story, please let me know and I'll fix it immediately!
> 
> thank you for reading!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Virgil ponders on the subtle ways he can be himself without outing himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: strong language/swearing, unintentional misgendering, homophobia mention, sexism mention and panic attacks
> 
> (if there's anything I've missed, just let me know!)

“The path of self-discovery is a long and _true_ adventure,” Roman once told him as they’d sat on Virgil’s bedroom floor. “And yeah, it can be scary, but I honestly think everyone is strong enough to battle their way through it. It’s just… difficult sometimes.”

That had been a couple of days after he’d come out as gay to his mother and was in the midst of dealing with her lukewarm response. Virgil, blissfully unaware of the similar struggle he would have in the future, had been all-too-happy to comfort him. Though he knew he had never been good at comforting other people or fully understanding how to do just that, his stomach turned at the thought of leaving Roman alone in such a vulnerable position.

A few days later, his mother expressed her full support, but explained that it may take a while for her to completely understand it. It only took a year or so until she was fully prepared to lead a pride parade, along with most other members of his family. _Most_ of them.

At that time, Virgil had been so inspired and had admired Roman so much for his bravery, but now, as he sits among endless half-empty notebooks and notepads and crumpled sheets of paper, he realises just how good of an actor Roman has always been. There had never been any bravery in Roman’s wavering smile. It had always been just a pretty painted picture to make the rest of the world happy whilst he had been dealing with possibly the worst rejection of his life.

Why does he feel the need to do this? His laptop sits in front of him with the wikipedia page explaining what being transgender means blaring through the screen, the pen between his fingers shifts from left to right. Left to right. Left to right to left again. Is this really necessary? He knows what being transgender means, at least in his situation, so why does he need to research it and write it down like some sort of science project? He doesn’t even like science!

A muffled cry of frustration escapes him as he drops the pen and buries his face in his pillow. His fingers ache as they clutch the soft pillow cover and really, he should stop holding it so tightly because it’s really beginning to hurt, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t have the strength to. And there’s something in his throat, something that is forcing it to contract continuously until he absolutely _has_ to heave out the acid burning the back of his throat. Even still, his neck feels like one large bruise for a while afterward. His eyes should feel damp, there should be a hotness leaking down his cheeks and burning a red stain into his skin. But there isn’t. Why isn’t there?

The fact that he isn’t having the reaction his body clearly wants him to is only frustrating him even more, hurting his throat and his fingers and his clenched teeth and his sucked in stomach until he lets out a dry sob that he prays his parents don’t hear. If he writes anything down and keeps it, even in a hidden drawer, his parents will find it and his life will be over. But he wants to know how to be transgender in the most subtle way he can be for now.

But wikipedia can’t teach him how to be transgender, how could you teach someone to be a man? Being a man isn’t just having the ‘right’ anatomy, or about enjoying sports and beer. He doesn’t know what being a man means. Especially a man pretending to be a woman.

His eyes betray him and sneak down to take a peek at a crumpled up note sitting beside him on his blanket, and even though he can barely make it out due to the aggressive manner he’d balled it up in, he still knows exactly what is written down there.

A big title that reads ‘Binding Tips’ in his chicken-scratch handwriting. And then several bullet points explaining the safer ways to bind, websites that sell the best and most comfortable binders, and what to do if you want to bind but don’t want to come out yet. Truthfully, he knows that this is all incredibly important information that he’ll need when he does decide to come out.

But he really doesn’t want to think about that.

He doesn’t want to come out. Ever.

But he doesn’t want to be trapped in the closet forever either.

* * *

The one mercy Virgil has in his life comes in the form of creative exercise. Because no matter how much he loves dancing, but claims to hate working out, he knows that dancing is technically exercise.

Held in the back of a local theatre, Virgil had discovered the dance class due to a poster hanging up on a billboard outside of his old high school one day. Vivid colours scattered across a page of navy blue, words written in white expressing the teacher’s enthusiasm for gaining new students and how he could be one of those new student’s by ‘ _the very next day!’_ Sure, the overwhelming excitement had been a little off-putting, but at the time, Virgil had been craving a little more excitement in his life. It had been… a rough couple of months when he’d discovered these classes.

But right now he sits on an over-crowded bus, enduring a ten minute journey to do something his father had been especially passionate about. Virgil had never understood why, until the thought of dance usually being seen as a somewhat feminine activity by those with the mentality of his father crossed his mind. Even street dance, which is the type of dance Virgil is currently being taught. God, he doesn’t understand where all these stereotypes come from.

As soon as a boy is interested in dancing, they’re immediately more feminine than others? It just doesn’t make any sense. Are men not allowed to have fun anymore? Is the whole point of being a man living a mundane life filled only with ‘hard work’ and ‘women’? Or maybe even the occasional ‘beer’? It’s just… so _stupid_.

Why is it that when a woman enjoys beer, a lot of men will like her more because she’s shown that she can ‘be one of the boys’, but when a biological female genuinely wants to be a man, they aren’t allowed? How does drinking beer allow a woman to be ‘one of the boys’, but a desire to have the same body and mind as a biological man is impossible if you have the anatomy of a female? Beer over desire. Materialism over passion. _Huh_.

As he enters the large wooden doors of the theatre, relief washes over him and holds him in an embrace that he knows will last the entire two hours he’ll be here. He almost wants to cry at the sight of Remington Jewells skipping towards him with an empty Starbucks cup in his hand, shades tucked messily atop his head, throwing his bleach blonde hair out in all directions and reminding Virgil that there was more he could be thinking about than the value of lust over love. “Ava, how’re you doing, babes?”

And just like that, he wants to vomit.

He’d almost forgotten. Remy doesn’t know, nor will he know for a long, long time if Virgil has any say in it. Because despite the fact that he would almost definitely accept Virgil for who he is, he can’t risk word getting back to his parents. Remy doesn’t like his parents much, but still. And now Virgil is beginning to realise that none of his friends like his parents. Well then.

“Hey, Rem. I’m good, just tired.”

“I feel ya, hun. Couldn’t sleep?”

At the reminder of the absolutely awful night before, Virgil hums quietly and suppresses a shudder. “Yeah, couldn’t sleep. Mind was too awake.”

Remy wraps an arm around his shoulders and pats his arm gently, muttering on about how he understands the agonies of being awake until ungodly hours of the morning, asking questions that ruin your life forever. For a moment, Virgil feels concern creep up the back of his neck, cold and itchy, heavy in his stomach until Remy gives an example of his so-called ‘agonising questions’. “Like, am I really supposed to just sit and accept the spelling of chihuahua? I don’t fucking think so. _No ma’am._ ”

Biting on a sigh that seems desperate to escape his lips, Virgil just chuckles and asks how Remy thinks it should be spelled. And from there, their conversation seems to spiral down a slope of God’s spelling mistakes to God’s genuine mistakes. Virgil doesn’t completely enjoy that conversation. But Remy doesn’t seem to notice. “Why should non-binary people have to hide who they are just because some prick can’t mind their own business? Honestly, it pisses me off. And it- it’s the same with transgender people! Don’t they deserve to feel safe being who they are? Maybe a little bit of _respect_? Fucking ridiculous, honestly.”

God, he really loves Remy, but absolutely hates this conversation. “True, true."

“Sorry, babe. I got a little rant-y there. How’ve you been anyway? I haven’t heard from you, which is a _crime_ because we’re so damn perfect together!” His eyes brighten and a cheeky grin stretches from one cheek to the other.

Virgil swallows and shrugs loosely. “Meh. Same as always.”

There’s hesitation in Remy’s expression before he hops down from his place on the stage and looks up at him. “Look, I know we don’t usually talk about this stuff, but have you thought about calling the doctor? I know you said it’s too much, but I really think it’d help.”

It aches a little to do it, but somehow, Virgil manages to smile weakly down at his friend. “I’m okay. I just need to talk to people more, maybe get out a little more often.”

Remy’s mouth curls down for a split second before he’s smiling once again. “If you’re trying to ask me out on a date, you already know I’d say yes.”

Virgil snorts. “Shut up. But seriously, you wanna get coffee or something this weekend?”

“One thousand percent yes.”

His muscles are _singing_. This past week has been hell and getting the chance to ignore all of that for a little while, to simply be alive and follow the beat rather than expectations is exactly what he’s been needing. Arms feeling limp, but more alive than he’s felt for the entire week, he follows the steps of his teacher’s choreography to some pop song he knows exactly one line of and makes sure not to get too close to any of his other dancing partners.

Remy is sitting over with one of the instructors, chatting and gesticulating in a manner that suggests he’s talking about more than just dancing. His eyes are bright, but from where Virgil completes the choreographed dance with one last move, he can’t tell whether that brightness is due to his typical passionate self, or whether it’s something else entirely.

As he heads over to make sure Remy’s okay, he drops his gaze down to his feet and suddenly notices how large his chest looks in the shirt he’s wearing. He wants a jacket or a coat. No, he wants a gigantic trench coat. With a gigantic trench coat, he’ll just be a stick of nothing. A stick of dark fabric and buttons, and who wants to stare at that?

“Babe, you okay?”

Instinctually, Virgil wraps his arms around himself at the sudden voice intruding his thoughts, but even when he realises it’s only Remy, he doesn’t let go. He doesn’t really know how to talk, anxiety tends to remove the memory of speech from one’s psyche, but he doesn’t want Remy to worry, so he just smiles and attempts to laugh. “You scared me.”

Remy frowns. “Sorry… Are you sure you’re okay? You look a little sweaty.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like… you look like you’ve been sweating,” Remy says. “Something’s up. ‘Your parents being dicks again?”

Virgil manages a small but genuine laugh. “You could at least pretend to like them, you know?”

Raising his eyebrows, Remy hums lowly. “I could, but I’d rather not give them any ideas.”

“Uh-huh,” Virgil says, laughing again and rolling his eyes. “And no⏤ Well, my dad’s been a little… homophobic, recently and _that_ was uncomfortable.”

Remy glares down at the hard floor. “Asshole.”

Virgil nods in agreement. “I’m aware.”

They’re both quiet for a short while, but Virgil doesn’t really know how to break the silence. He knows he doesn’t want to talk about his parents anymore. So, after another moment of quiet, he clears his throat. “What were you and the instructor talking about, anyway? Is everything okay?”

“Oh,” Remy mutters, seemingly caught off guard by the question. “Yeah, I was just negotiating the outfits we're going to wear for the show. I don’t like how… _gendered_ they are. It just…”

He trails off, combing his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know, makes me feel weird? Like, why do the girls have to wear skirts? Why can’t the guys wear them too?”

Virgil grins. “Always looking for a fight.”

Remy falters for a moment before smiling back and huffing out a laugh. “I suppose so. It just feels icky. I know it’s dumb.”

“It’s not, honestly.”

Remy only nods.

* * *

He gets home at around six and immediately rushes up the stairs to his room, collapsing on his bed and shuffling under his covers. Just the thought of his father trying to force conversation makes his stomach spin. Feeling so wrong around his parents shouldn’t be a thing, should it? But he dreads every interaction, every conversation, because somehow it always ends up hurting him in one way or another.

Just as he settles into bed, ready to scroll through his phone applications until he passes out, a ‘ _ding_ ’ informs him of a new text message. From Roman.

> _'Hey! Are you still cool with being my date to my tía’s wedding?xxx'_

Virgil feels a smile involuntarily creep up on his face, dragging heat up his cheeks along with it. He sighs softly and types a confirmation text back, staring at his screen and silently willing those three dots to appear. They don’t for a little while, but even so, he constantly taps his messages app just to double check. He doesn’t want to miss it, after all.

About half an hour later, he hears that familiar ‘ _ding_ ’ sounds out again and he gasps, quickly tapping on the message and reading it through. He’s already imagining the wedding and how much fun he and Roman will have. And how cool Roman will look in his suit. Will Virgil have to wear a dress or a suit? It wouldn’t bother him too much either way, but he’d rather know now.

> _'Yes!!! Can’t wait!! Finally, I’ll bring a girl home and make CERTAIN PEOPLE happy hahaha!xxx'_

A shaky sigh and then he locks his phone, resigning himself to staring up at the ceiling and thinking up ideas on what to wear for the wedding. Probably a dress.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Virgil needs an outfit for the wedding, but more will come of this shopping trip than he thinks...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: strong language/swearing, body dysphoria, brief sexist comment, implied sexism, implied emotional abuse, anxiety mention, unintentional misgendering and unintentional dead-naming

Two weeks away until Virgil would be standing in a huge crowd of strangers, wearing a dress he likely won't be comfortable wearing, sweating in said dress and ruining whatever he does with his hair and makeup, and attempting to socialise with possible homophobes. At least he would be dancing with Roman, that sounded fun. Slow dancing. He'd never humiliate himself by trying something else. Besides, Roman had promised to teach him how to waltz, though they'll probably just bump it down to a 'prom' slow swaying dance.

But first, he actually had to purchase the outfit he would be ruining with the sweat.

He and Roman had agreed to go shopping together a week prior, and Virgil, although excited to spend time with his best friend, is dreading the hunt for clothes that he will actually feel like himself in.

It's not that he has a problem with wearing dresses, he actually likes dresses and skirts, but it would be much easier and more comfortable for him to wear such 'feminine' items of clothing if he was actually recognised as a man. He can't really put it in words as to why he feels that way, all he knows is that he does.

A simple pair of jeans and a shirt should suffice for a 'going-out-to-buy-clothes-you'll-probably-hate' outfit, so all he needs to do now is grab a jacket and head out the door. But before he manages to, a soft voice calls him into the kitchen.

He sighs and does as his mother asks, leaning against the doorway as she writes in a notepad at the kitchen table. The notepad is pristine and her handwriting curly and linked; Virgil has always loved his mother's handwriting, whether it was in a note in his lunch or in a holiday card. She finishes her sentence before looking up at him with a smile. "How is everything? And how is Roman?"

Within her tone is an entirely different conversation.

_'Why haven't we talked in so long?'_

_'Have I done something to upset you?'_

_'Has your father done something to upset you?"_

_'I'm so sorry, I wish he was better.'_

But instead of unravelling that conversation, he merely shrugs and offers her what he hopes is a reassuring smile. "Fine. Just nervous about going out today."

There. There was something she could latch onto. It was true, but it didn't give him away.

For a moment, she only gave him her typical motherly sympathetic look, but soon enough she was ushering him to her and wrapping her arms around his waist, leaning against her stomach in an awkward, but somewhat comforting hug.

"Roman is a lovely boy, he'll be there to protect you from all the terrible socialising."

She giggles and nearly spreads her laughter over to him, but he stifles it and settles for a fond smile instead. He shrugs and nods in agreement. "True. He usually takes over the conversation, which most people would be mad about, but he knows me. If he thought I wanted to say anything, he'd let me lead as much as I wanted to."

His mother's smile falters, and it sends something sharp into his chest. A blade perhaps. Or maybe an arrow.

Despite her obvious wistfulness, she only smiles wider. "I'm glad you have someone like him, Ava. He's good for you."

"Mom, no, he's⏤"

"I know," she says, cutting him off. "There are such things as 'platonic' soulmates, you know?"

Virgil can feel something in his throat making it difficult to swallow. Making it difficult to speak. So, he says nothing and just hugs her as best as he can, feeling the cold cross around her neck press against his hip.

* * *

"So, where to first?"

Roman is smiling so brightly it's a little bit disorienting, but Virgil taps his chin and thinks. Where do people get important clothes? For special occasions.

He doesn't want to show up underdressed, but he definitely doesn't want to dress-up in something too fancy and extravagant. What if the bride thought he was trying to upstage her? Unlikely, but anything was possible with anxiety!

"Where do you think we should go?" He asks, scratching his wrist nervously. "I don't really know where people usually buy wedding clothes. Not, y'know, as the bride. I mean as, like, guests⏤"

Roman laughs and rolls his eyes. "Well, yeah, I assumed."

For a second, he just scans the area, brushing his bangs out of his eyes, huffing out an irritated sigh as he tries to stick it back again with the remaining gel in his hair. Virgil, for some reason, notices how smooth his hands are. No callouses. No scars or 'imperfections'. He's like a doll.

Or, that's how they look until they turn more into the shadows.

Soon he can see the tiny callouses on his fingers and thumb, and there's a small mark⏤not quite a callous or blister⏤on his palm. He wonders where they're from, but quickly remembers his recent taking up of fencing. Having an obsession with knights and princes probably led him there. Though Virgil would never call him out on it.

Well, he won't _yet_ , anyway.

He suddenly grins and gestures to a store on the second floor just in front of them. "That's where my cousin got her dress!"

"Does she live around here?" Virgil asks.

Roman shakes his head and says, "No. She came over to visit after the announcement and bought her dress then."

He laughs softly. "She gets way too excited about parties and stuff."

With a loose shrug, Virgil takes his wrist and pulls him towards the escalators. "I mean, weddings are exciting, and they don't happen often, so it's fair."

"No, I mean she gets excited for any occasion where she can buy a fancy new outfit. For example," he steps onto the escalator, "she once bought a really damn expensive dress just for her niece's birthday party. Two months in advance."

Virgil chuckles, surprised. "Well, I'm not that bad, but I'm pretty excited whenever I can buy a new outfit."

Roman, stepping off the escalator, laughs once again, almost obnoxiously loud. "I guess it's just a girl thing."

Tensing, Virgil snaps his head up to look at him, eyes wide not only at the distinct pang of 'wrong' in his chest, but at the rather condescending comment that really was. Roman seems to notice this immediately, gasping and looking down at him. "Oh my God, what the hell was that? Ava, I'm so sorry. I don't even know why I said that."

And Virgil, swallowing down whatever angry response he had building up, sighs. But he doesn't get the chance to speak, as Roman is continuing with his apology, babbling and stammering his way through. "I'm so sorry, I thought it was just a joke. Oh my God. I think⏤ I mean, I only know girls who do that sort of thing, but like, that doesn't make it bad or like, a thing that _only_ women can do, you know? Like⏤"

"Roman! I forgive you, alright? Just," he sighs. "Just watch what you say."

Shoulders deflating curtly in relief, Roman turns to him and smiles weakly. "I'm sorry, again."

Virgil smiles. "It's okay. I've heard enough of that by now to know when it's genuine."

Roman's lips turn downwards abruptly, taking Virgil's hand and squeezing it softly once before letting go. Just those few seconds of contact leave a tingling static all over his skin, a sensation so strong he has to look down just to check that his skin isn't bubbling or crawling around his muscles. He looks up and offers his friend a smile. "Really, it's okay. People say shitty things all the time, but it doesn't mean they're shitty people."

And that smile brightens Roman's features again, emphasising the dimples sinking into his cheeks. Virgil seems to focus completely on them for a moment because the next thing he knows, he's being dragged into the doors of the clothing store Roman had pointed out.

The store itself is filled with women of many ages, some with their kids, a few with their friends, and many have their partners with them. Bright colours on every shelf and railing almost blind him, sending his thoughts down a mixed spiral of _'oh-god-why-are-there-so-many-choices'_ and _'they-all-look-so-good-how-am-I-supposed-to-choose-just-one'_.

Roman stands beside him, looking him over out the corner of his eye, then plastering on a smile. "Are you okay?"

"Oh, uh, yeah. There's just a lot of people."

With a nod suggesting he had already guessed Virgil's issue, Roman links their arms together and pulls Virgil close to his side. It's an action so familiar it shouldn't send sparks up his arm. He still doesn't know why it happens. Perhaps it's a hint of touch starvation. He tightens his hold slightly as they walk further into the store, passing by other customers looking through clothes and accessories.

A strange feeling hits him just then.

Every customer in this store have their own lives, which seems obvious and of course it is, but truly thinking about so many people with lives as intricate as his own startles him a little. Different difficulties, trauma, beautiful memories and identities. Someone in this store could be a puppet, too.

That should make him feel less alone, but it only worsens the alienation somehow.

Roman hums to himself and takes in their surroundings, really seeming to pay attention to the dresses on the railings. "These are nice! Where do you want to look?"

Virgil hesitantly steps forward, arm still linked with Roman's, and peers around the different styles of dresses hanging on the railings. Most of them are far too long for him. Dresses above his knees feel right, but he also has to think about what would be appropriate for a wedding. A suit would be appropriate.

He sighs softly and pulls Roman gently across the back where there are the darker shades. A few girls are looking at the black dresses hanging on a railing a few feet away, but the purples are what catch Virgil's eye. Dark shades of purple ranging from plum to wine; the light shades are on the other side of the store.

Roman smiles and looks through them, too.

Eventually, he picks out a dress with long sleeves, which looks very nice, but the length could go past his knees. He doesn't want to upset Roman however, and decides to take it anyway, figuring he could at least try it on.

* * *

Three dresses later, they're in the fitting rooms. Roman waiting in a seat just outside so Virgil can have some privacy.

He tries on the dress Roman chose for him first, immediately despising the way the fabric loosely tapped his knees whenever he moved. But he steps out, twirling awkwardly and showing Roman, whose eyebrows knit together. "Seems I don't have as much fashion sense as I thought."

Virgil snorts. "It's not the dress, it's me. I just⏤ Long dresses make me uncomfortable."

Nodding in understanding and agreement, Roman leans back in his seat and comments on how the dress accentuates his curves in a very 'Roman' way. "Hey, at least is shows that you've got a rockin' bod."

At first, Virgil laughs, not believing him for a second. But then he looks down and feels his stomach turn.

Not only does his chest look too big, but his hips look too wide. He brushes his fingertips over the waistline of the dress and swallows, his throat suddenly feeling tighter than before.

"So, that's a no on the dress. I'll go change."

He quickly slips back behind the curtain and desperately tears the dress from his body, hanging it back up. Though he tells himself that he can't let this ruin his day, that it really doesn't matter and that he can choose a different dress, he feels a particular burn behind his lids. Does he look like that in every dress he wears?

But he likes wearing dresses sometimes. They're pretty.

Now though, he's staring at his body in the mirror and the dresses hanging from the hooks on the wall, and he can't breathe right. His lungs are shaking, his eyes burning hotter and his lips are so, so dry.

He doesn't want to wear a dress anymore. It feels so wrong.

Looking down again, he stares at his chest. It's so fucking big. Everyone probably looks at it when he goes out. He just wants to cut them off and make his chest flat.

In fact, he just wants to be a formless block of concrete. Just a block of grey concrete hopping around a store looking for an outfit to wear to a wedding. A harmless, sexless block of concrete trying to get a degree in Creative Writing so it can be a writer. For a moment, he forgets his panic and wonders how people would react to an inanimate object managing to become an author. Truly, an inspirational story.

He sniffs again and it brings him back to reality, where his chest is staring up at him almost mockingly.

"Ava? Are you okay in there?"

Stiffening up, he sniffs again and curses himself out for it in his mind. "I'm fine!"

There's a scoff before Roman is making his way to the curtain. "Sure. I can hear you crying, what's wrong?"

He sighs. "I just... I don't like how I look. It's not a big deal."

Roman doesn't even miss a beat. "But you're beautiful."

Something snaps in his mind, then. It's weird, but he soon figures out what it is. Puzzle pieces clicking into place. Fragments of a shattered mirror piecing themselves together again. Things starting to make sense. He sucks in a breath, feeling his cheeks flush hot and his feet shifting from side to side. Somehow, and for a reason he doesn't know, he isn't even that surprised.

"Thanks. It's just hard to believe sometimes."

"I know this is a cliché, but I wish you could see yourself the way I see you." Roman says, voice soft as to not attract the attention of nosy patrons.

Virgil's stomach spins and he hides his face in his hands, possibly attempting to hide the redness and the smile from the security monitors. Though, there may not even be any in the fitting rooms, so he doesn't want to try and guess who he's trying to hide from again.

He doesn't let this show through the curtain, however, merely laughing fondly. "Sap."

Roman laughs. "Now, c'mon. I want to see you looking cute in another one of those dresses."

Those words send his stomach sinking again, but he manages to school his expression and slip into another dress. It's a shorter dress with shorter sleeves. The colour is a lot darker, almost black, but with a tinge of purple. The material looks shiny, almost, and when it moves it shows off the several dark purples woven into the colour. Virgil likes it more than the first dress, but it still doesn't feel right.

Even so, he steps out and watches Roman nod and smile. "Cute. But I don't know... I think the colour's too dark. And it's just too plain."

Virgil nods. "Yeah. I'm not in love with it either, to be honest."

"Well, we've still got one more dress to try! If you don't like it, we can look around some more."

He looks at the third dress and, well, he's surprised he'd forgotten picking it up.

It's gorgeous. Short, but not too short, different shades of purple all sort of mixed together, and long-sleeved. He got cold way too easily.

An involuntary smile pulls at his lips and he takes the second dress of, hanging it back up before slipping into the third one. A much better fit. And the sleeves aren't only long, but they hang down slightly at the ends. It reminds him of a wizard’s cloak, and he loves it.

Once again, he steps out and the crowd, which is Roman, goes wild. He gasps loudly so that every customer in the fitting room looks in their direction and claps excitedly.

"Oh, my goodness! Work. It. Ava! Yes!"

Ducking his head down, Virgil instinctually takes a step back and laughs nervously. "Roman, shut up! Everyone's staring."

Roman shakes his head. "Absolutely not. You look stunning and I want the whole world to see you!"

Virgil makes some sort of strangled sound before hiding back behind the curtain. "Yeah, I'd rather not have billions of people stare at me, thank you."

From the other side of the curtain, Roman barks out a laugh. "I'm going to have the cutest date at this wedding. It's official."

With a laugh of his own, Virgil peeks out and notices that, although there are one or two people still smiling at them, most of the patrons have turned their attention away from them. He smiles at Roman, ignoring the fluttering in his stomach and chest as he receives a smile in return. "Thank you, Ro."

"Of course."

* * *

That night, Virgil lay in bed, his new dress hanging up in his wardrobe and out of his sight. Eyes burning with unshed tears, he scrolls through different applications on his phone, trying to find something to distract his mind from thoughts of dysphoria and an unrequited crush. He comes across several male celebrities across his Instagram and sighs.

A few app switches later, he's looking up pictures of different short hairstyles.

He stares at them for a while before finding one that gives him pause. It's short, but long enough to tie up into a short ponytail and men with ponytails have always been incredibly attractive to him. Could he pull it off, though? Or, would he just look like a girl?

And would short hair even look good on him? He glances down at his dark hair, pulling at the strands until they're straight and reach the middle of his chest. Technically, this hair could work, but it just doesn't feel right.

He sends the hairstyle to Roman.

> _I know it's on a guy lol_
> 
> _but do you think it'd suit me?_

It's painful to write, but he tries not to pay too much attention to the aching in his chest, simply concentrating on the screen of his phone. He's on his barbers' website, looking at the prices of getting his hair cut.

He kind of wants to dye it, too, but manages to stop himself before he asks Roman whether he'd suit purple hair.

A few minutes later, his phone lets out a 'ding' and lights up with a message at the top of his screen.

> _Uh, yeah????? Obviously?????????? You'd rock short hair xxx_
> 
> _I'd probably turn straight tbh xxx_
> 
> _Controversial, but true xxx_

A helpless smile stretches across his face and he giggles a little bit to himself. He knows it means nothing, but just for a moment, he lets himself indulge.

> _thanks babe x_


End file.
